In which I agree to meet David 1.0

It was the battle of the high-end rooms. I was in my hotel, Thyme in the Cotswolds, after my awful day at a wedding. He was at Soho Farmhouse doing god only knows.

The Rock Star – lazy as always; my overriding memory of our dalliance is that I always had to be on top – then said, slurring slightly, ‘Can you make it over here?’

Me: ‘No! I’m in my nightie!

I’ve taken my make-up off!

I’ve planned breakfast!’

I didn’t add that I am barred from the Soho House group, given that I wrote a column about how they refused to let me write my copy on the Queen’s funeral in the lobby, and ejected me at 2am, despite the fact I got married in Babington House 20 years ago, and have been staying with them ever since. When

I had to write a piece on the new Louis Vuitton store on

Bond Street, and was on a tight deadline, Claridge’s saw my panic and offered me an office, gave me their wi-fi code and brought drinks. That’s true class. Him: ‘OK, got to go.’

Honestly. All of which is partly why I invited David 1.0 to have dinner with me on Thursday night. I was in

London for an early meeting the next day. I sat in Moro on Exmouth Market waiting for him. I was in a sheer Prada skirt and Navygrey oversized woolly. I was so nervous that I downed cava. He arrived, and as he approached my table I felt a wash of affection for him. ‘Oh god,’ he said. ‘I was almost in tears in the taxi. My feet must have grown. I have to take my shoes off! Ow!’

Which he proceeded to do. I’ve never been on a date before where the man is just wearing socks. Thank god there weren’t holes or patches of darning. He came and sat next to me on my banquette. ‘You are so beautiful,’ he said, gazing myopically into my eyes. ‘Has it been three years since I saw you?’ ‘No! It was last October.’ We ordered, then he told me he has turned down sex with two women.

‘What do you mean?’ I said. ‘In 1969?’

‘No, this year.’

‘How is that possible? The only place you go is Sainsbury’s!’

He tapped the side of his straight, lovely nose. ‘On the phone. Through friends, setting me up.’

‘So why did you turn them down?’

‘Because I’m in love with someone else.’

‘Who?’

‘You, you fool. I don’t want anyone new.’ (He then told me his ex-wife has become a live-in carer as ‘she is a very caring person’, and I felt a tinge of jealousy.)

Blimey. David is catnip to women! We had dinner (£154, and only he had two courses), then hailed a cab to my hotel,

The Zetter Townhouse in Clerkenwell. The approach is all cobbles, which play havoc with my shoes, but at least at this point I wasn’t in socks. The waitress in Moro had given him a paper bag to carry his shoes in.

We had a drink. It was lovely to be in a bar with a man, not my normal position given I am usually in jodhpurs and wellies, drinking from the horse trough and stealing the wild birds’ peanuts. He knew he wasn’t coming upstairs, as

I had already warned him not to bring a toothbrush. It would be too much, too soon. Like getting into a Ferrari having just passed my driving test.

I’m woefully out of practice.

I need to watch more romcoms.

Anyway, I am now in my hotel bed with square pillows and he texts me. ‘Thank you for dinner. So great to see you again. Get some sleep. x’

I reply: ‘See you on the 12th if you are free. [I am in town again to review the Chanel exhibition at the V&A.] Am staying at the same hotel.

You might even get sex.’

Him: ‘Great. I’ll have a bath.’

Sitting waiting for him, I was so nervous that I downed cava